


The path of minimal resistance

by fawsley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawsley/pseuds/fawsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has no choice but to take a journey into the unknown...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The path of minimal resistance

**Author's Note:**

> This got absolutely no response at all on the Sherlock com. I didn't think it was that bad, but there you go. I'm posting it for my own satisfaction if for nobody else. There will be a concluding chapter for the same reason.

Sherlock knew a real gun when he saw one, and the one being pointed at him by the man who had invaded his armchair was most definitely real. Having just returned from a partially successful trip to the Tesco’s at the top of Baker Street he was armed only with a baguette and a somewhat sorry lettuce, neither of which held out much hope as effective self-defence weapons.

The man in the chair was small, compact, and most probably deadly, the sort that was easy to underestimate and not so easy to overcome. Sherlock knew his type and he knew his own limits. He dropped the carrier bag and raised his hands slowly into the air.

‘A wise move, Mister Holmes,’ his guest smirked. ‘I could make threats, but I prefer to let this…’ - motioning towards the gun - ‘…do the talking. And I’m certain you are more than aware of what sort of unpleasant mess that can make.

‘We’re going to go on a little journey together, you and I. You can put on the blindfold yourself, I can make you do it - which might not be pleasant for either of us, or I can pistol whip you until you don’t know whether you’re coming or going and tip you down the stairs. Which is it going to be?’

Sherlock lowered one hand and took the proffered slip of black material.

‘I’ll take the path of minimal resistance, thank you.’

‘Excellent! Now I’m sure the great Sherlock Holmes is more than capable of finding the way blindfold down his own staircase.’

Sherlock tightened the band behind his head and turned confidently towards the door.

‘Naturally…’

The low purr of the waiting car betrayed its class. Sherlock was guided onto deep leather seats, the safety belt strapped carefully around him, the heavy door closed and locked by his companion. The gun, he was quite sure, was still aimed directly at his head. An indicator ticked gently then they pulled away from Baker Street and into the gathering gloom of the city’s dusk.

The smooth ride and continuous silence might have been soporific in other circumstances but Sherlock remained on high alert, his other senses more than compensating for his lack of sight.

Finally the car slowed and came to a stop.

‘Ah, Bart’s at last!’

The gunman gave a low laugh.

‘You are indeed as brilliant as your reputation suggests, Mister Holmes!’

‘And your attempts to confuse me were crude at best. Cunning, indeed, to take a route over Westminster Bridge just as Big Ben was chiming, made sure I knew we were going south over the river, but then turn left and keep left? Hugging the south bank, easy. And you forgot that there’s another distinctive clock along the Thames. Southwark Cathedral, striking fifteen minutes after Big Ben, so we were crossing back north over London Bridge. Plus of course it’s a neap tide tonight so the mud banks are particularly exposed, the pungent odour of which, despite the best efforts of this vehicle’s no doubt top-of-the-range air conditioning system, still managed to permeate for the few seconds our crossing took. After that, simple. Left up King William Street, past the Bank, up Moorgate, bit of a swerve into the right lane through the Crossrail roadworks, twice around Angel roundabout (was that really necessary?) then back down City Road and right into Chiswell Street. The Beech Street tunnel was such a give-away, the acoustics of the car bouncing back off all that concrete, a child would have known exactly where we were. Round and round and round and _round_ West Smithfield. I’m afraid my inner ear is perfectly balanced and I never get disorientated. And here we are at Barts.’

For a long moment Sherlock’s fellow passenger refrained from responding, but when he did it was with the sharp click of the hammer being drawn back on his gun.

‘Impressive, Mister Holmes. Most impressive. And, may I add, a little overconfident. St Bartholomew’s yes, but then again... Ah, but soon you will see for yourself exactly where we are. And such a good thing that you are still wearing that most flamboyant great coat! No doubt you’ll be feeling the cold before long. If not the temperature then perhaps the close presence of so many dead will raise a shiver.

‘Follow me, Mister Holmes. Do exactly as I say. One step out of line and – well, I sure I don’t have to impress upon you that there will be certain undesirable consequences.

It’s time to for you to meet The Showman!’


	2. The path of minimal resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock discovers who is behind his mysterious journey...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concluding chapter of the lead balloon fic.

The man stood frozen in time and space, his skin flayed from him and draped like an obscene cloak across one arm, yet still he lived. John Watson approached cautiously through flickering candlelight, his hands dripping red onto ancient flagstones.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, ‘I spilled some…’

Sherlock turned slowly towards him.

‘No matter. It seems that the cake has soaked up most of it so nothing’s wasted.’

He nodded towards the figure before them as he relieved John of plate and glass.

‘It’s called _Exquisite Pain_. Vast improvement on when he sawed a cow in half. That was nothing but a waste of good formaldehyde.’

‘Mmmm…’ John mumbled through a large mouthful of cake. ‘You couldn’t really survive that, you know. Not being flayed alive…’

‘Ah, but this is _art_ , John, not science!’

There came the distinctive tread of a pair of bespoke hand-crafted shoes accompanied by the steady tap of the ferrule of an expensive umbrella.

‘Ah, dear brother, so very gratifying to learn that you do indeed recognise that there is life beyond logic and science. One does wonder, sometimes…’

Sherlock snorted as he munched on soggy cake.

‘If that’s the case then why did you go to so much trouble to set up all this for me?’

He spun around, gesturing at the shimmering sacred space of St Bartholomew-the-Great.

‘A private solo performance by Maxim Vengerov, the great showman himself, in a venue with _these_ acoustics? How could I not appreciate it?’

Mycroft smiled indulgently.

‘I certainly hoped you would. Though I must apologise that Monsieur Vengerov was unable to stay longer but he is, after all, an extremely busy young man. I knew very well that if I purchased tickets and provided transport you would doubtless refuse my offer, so an alternative arrangement had to be made. St Petersburg last night, Carnegie Hall on Sunday… It was so very good of him to drop by, but then he did rather owe me a favour and I felt this was an excellent form of repayment.’

‘Don’t want to know about that!’ Sherlock growled.

‘No matter, no matter. Monsieur Vengerov will arrive in New York relaxed and refreshed with plenty of time to spare. My private jet left City Airport less than fifteen minutes ago.’

John’s eyes widened in surprise and he turned slightly from the elder Holmes brother towards the younger.

‘Mycroft has his own _jet?_ ’ he hissed.

‘Jets. Plural. Delete it. Not important.’

‘And yes, the good Doctor Watson also played his part in my little subterfuge, did he not? Perhaps he should consider a future career as an armed kidnapper.’

‘Not kidnapping if I went willingly. Which I did.’

‘I did have a loaded gun pointed at you,’ John interjected.

‘Which was utterly irresponsible and totally reprehensible. As a highly experienced Army officer you should know better. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Thank you, John. Though I do hope you’re not still armed and highly dangerous in this holy place.’

John swore colourfully under his breath and grimaced.

‘It’s still in Anthea’s handbag. She went off with Vengerov to the airport.’

‘And how did it end up there?’

‘She was in the car with us. I didn’t need it any more once you were inside but didn’t have anywhere to keep it, so…’

‘Still loaded?’

‘No! The clip’s in my pocket. Didn’t fancy the idea of Anthea getting bored with her incessant texting and deciding to fiddle with a loaded Browning instead.’

Mycroft’s low chuckle was as much snark as anything else.

‘Don’t underestimate my staff, Doctor Watson. _Anthea_ , as you so charmingly refer to her, is an expert marksman. I refuse to refer to her as a markswoman. You should see her PlayStation scores! Fret not, your favourite toy is already safely back at your bijou Baker Street abode.’

And with that he sauntered towards the church door, umbrella swinging in perfect slow circles.

‘You haven’t thanked him, not properly…’

‘No need, John. Mycroft knows my mind and he also knows I never thank him for anything, whether I should or not. Never have, never will. So… More wine-sodden Victoria sponge or shall we make our way home?’

John glanced at the gradually emptying church. Mrs Hudson was chattering animatedly to Mycroft, brushing down his coat for him as he guided her outside.

‘Don’t really fancy sharing a ride with those two. It’s a warm evening… Shall we walk it?’

Sherlock grinned widely and John knew he’d made the right choice.

‘A slight detour via Ely Place, perhaps? We should celebrate your personal triumph at abducting Sherlock Holmes single-handedly!’

‘The wine’s rubbish at the Mitre…’

‘I was thinking more along the lines of one of their excellent Scotch Eggs…’

‘Anything to get some protein inside you and that’s a double whammy of the stuff! Maybe I should kidnap you more often if it does this to your appetite. I must say I quite enjoyed plotting all this with Mycroft, despite the fact that he’s even more of insufferable pain in the arse than you are.’

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, almost skipping down the pathway towards the old west front gate and playing enthusiastic air-violin as he went.

He might even have _two_ Scotch Eggs, he was in such a good mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damien Hirst's statue _Exquisite Pain_ depicting St Bartholomew is on loan to the Church which is a wonderful historic building and well worth the entrance fee if you're in the Farringdon area.


End file.
